


Anywhere But Here

by sifuamelia



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crush at First Sight, Established Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Falling In Love, Hostage Situations, Keith & Shiro (Voltron) are Half-Siblings, Keith (Voltron) has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith/Lance (Voltron)-centric, Lance (Voltron) Has Self-Esteem Issues, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Multi, POV Keith (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), Space Dad Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 03:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15258660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifuamelia/pseuds/sifuamelia
Summary: Five times that Lance held the door... and the one time that Keith did.





	1. Chapter 1

**I.** _I'm fallin' through the door_

 

Two weeks of shore leave — practically unheard of at his age and rank. But he makes a beeline straight for the city as soon as Kolivan tosses him a grumbled, “Get outta here, kid,” over his beefy shoulder.

Keith's never been one to ask many questions.

 

* * *

 

The Long Island Railroad has always been a strange beast, and all the more so as the evening bleeds into true nighttime. Late on a winter Saturday is no exception to the rule, with the darkness growing thickly around the tracks at an alarming rate.

There’s a group of (blech) teenagers blaring some kind of song (or maybe, very aggressive poem) with more explicit language than non-explicit language over by the train car’s grimy bathroom. There’s a cluster of perma-tanned wine moms trying to look and sound half of their true ages as they excitedly discuss the potential of spotting Bruce Springsteen on the increasingly ill-defined border of Midtown and Hell’s Kitchen.

And, of course, there’s the elderly woman with a truly enormous — really, it’s almost _ungodly_ in its size — potted hydrangea sitting _right next to him_. The car is mostly empty, but for some godforsaken reason, she just _had_ to sit smack in the spot to Keith’s left. Perhaps the most uncomfortable aspect of this compromising situation is the fact that she’s been staring at him, near-unblinking, since Lynbrook.

Her eyes are very large behind her coke-bottom glasses. They've blinked maybe twice in the past twenty-three minutes and thirty-eight seconds (he's been counting).

Keith slinks just a little bit closer to the scuffed-up window and prays to a god that he doesn’t quite believe in that she gets off at Jamaica.

 

* * *

 

Penn Station is a whole lot nicer these days, Keith will give Manhattan that. He’d avoided the sprawling mess of it with a five block radius back when he was a kid, but now, he’s confident that he can stroll through its twisting and turning tunnels end-to-end without being offered three different variations of crack cocaine from within the greasy linings of shady trench coats.

Even though it’s nearly midnight at this point, and twenty degrees before windchill to boot, Midtown is alive and bursting in full-blown technicolor spectacle. At least _that_ hasn’t changed. New York City is kind of like a big-top circus, Keith thinks as he neatly dodges a hot dog stand leaking fragrant heat into the freezing air around them. A big-top circus that never goes to bed — just gets increasingly weirder in its attractions as the night wears on. Nobody’s offering him crack cocaine, but an entire cabaret’s worth of drag queens has just hustled past him like a herd of long-legged gazelles in mile-high heels (a seemingly impractical choice in the slushy weather, but who is he to judge?), and just across 34th Street, on the edge of Penn Plaza, a hunched-over man in an honest-to-goodness tinfoil hat is hollering something or other about the end being nigh, much to the startled amusement of a gaggle of tourists just leaving the Knicks game.

Keith sighs into the beat-up collar of his beat-up winter coat. _Man_ , is this place exhausting. Give him 35,000 feet of solitude, with only his own thoughts and a silent radio for company, any day of the year. Anything over _this_.

He hails a taxi.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks gruffly.

“79th and Madison,” he replies. “Please.”

 

* * *

 

The Castle is _posh_. There’s really no other word for a thirty-floor condominium complex that ranks in every respectable magazine’s top five list, year after year after year. It’s classic old Manhattan architecture, something straight out of a French renaissance history book. Like a beta Plaza Hotel, but fancier, somehow. An East Egg Gatsby-esque touch, maybe?

Keith doesn’t know squat about architecture, but he _did_ read _The Great Gatsby_ in high school. As a result of this required tragedy, he doesn’t think that his assumptions are _too_ far off base. (And for all that _he_ knows, Allura's father could’ve taken a leaf or two out of that damn book while the place was being built.)

“You _sure_ this is the right place?” the cabbie asks skeptically, his thick accent brutal on Keith's overtired ears.

Keith tugs on the hem of his ratty jacket. He _knows_ how he looks — civvies give him an air of delinquency, for some inconvenient reason (it hadn't earned him many brownie points back in his schoolboy days). But at this point, he’s so bone-tired, he can’t bring himself to care.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“...You’re welcome, kid.”

 

* * *

 

If Keith’s remembering correctly, they live on the 24th floor. Allura’s parents had offered up their penthouse before the entire d'Altea clan moved back to their native New Zealand, but Shiro had (respectfully, Keith presumes — everything about his brother is done with respectful intent) declined. Something about wanting the boys to grow up “normal.”

A ridiculous sentiment, really (not that he’s about to tell Shiro that… _but_ ). Between their two world-famous fathers — an internationally-renowned surgeon and an acclaimed member of the UN's committee on education — the lives led by Daniel and Vincent Shirogane could never be classified as “normal.” Keith loves his twin nephews, he really does, but their lifestyle is just borderline _absurd_. What kinds of four year-olds have their own personal chefs, anyway?

Even Shiro will admit to it from time to time, the absolute surreality of what his life has become. After all, his beginnings were just as humble as Keith’s—

“Excuse me?” somebody calls from behind him, tone colored fifty shades frantic. “Excuse me, sir? You can’t just, like—“

It’s the doorman, the one that Keith had just blown by for the elevator bank. He’s left the sumptuous lobby’s front desk unattended (strike one) and made a mad dash after Keith (strike two). Presumably to apprehend him, or something pointless like that.

“I know where I’m going,” Keith says shortly, not even bothering to look up from the gold-plated (yes, it’s bona fide 24-karat gold, because when you’re a billionaire developer, why the hell not?) elevator console. “You don’t have to—“

“But—!“ the doorman splutters incoherently.

Keith rolls his eyes at the elevator’s gilded doors. He can just make out the man’s anxious silhouette in their reflective surfaces. “Really, it’s fine, you can just—“

“Do you _want_ me to lose my job?” The reflection’s arms go akimbo, any semblance of timid politeness gone completely out one of the building’s floor-to-ceiling windows. The ones that are made of the finest imported Italian stained glass and look straight out onto the park. A million dollar view — _literally_.

It’s enough to make Keith turn on his heel and _glare_. Because he’s _tired_. _So_ tired. Shiro seems to get off on reminding him that patience yields focus, but right now, between his sheer exhaustion and the lobby’s overwhelming dazzle, an entire world away from the life that he’s always known — well, he’s ready to give this goddamn doorman a piece of his goddamn mind—

Except—

Turns out that the doorman, in the golden light of the Castle’s lobby...  _glows_.

Keith’s heart stutters.

The other man straightens, even in the face of Keith’s, well… face. He's been told on multiple occasions that it isn't always the kindest of faces.

“Look—“ the doorman begins, somewhat more softly.

The far right elevator _pings_.

“Keith!” Shiro exclaims. “You’re here!”

Even as he’s swallowed by his older brother’s octopus-worthy hug, Keith can’t stop staring at that damn doorman. Fuck social norms — he’s never seen a guy _glow_ like that before! What in the flying—

“Sorry it took me so long,” Shiro apologizes (without letting even a millimeter go, of course, because it’s Shiro, and _dammit_ , does he love hugs). “Bit of a ride to get all the way down here, y'know?”

“It’s cool,” Keith mumbles into his over-muscled shoulder. “I can’t breathe.”

“Oh, shoot, uh—“ Shiro lets go of him, which is kind of like dropping him. Height differences, and all that — it never really made sense to Keith, seeing as his mother’s markedly taller than Shiro’s. Luck of their father’s gene pool, then. Except Keith, who copped-out at 5'10", got the unlucky hand.

“G-Good eve — I mean, uh, good _morning_? That is… Uh. H-Hi. Hi, Dr. Shirogane.” The doorman swallows audibly. Keith stares at that, too — the long, _long_ line of his smooth throat, bobbing slightly under some invisible pressure.

“I’m sorry, I… I didn’t realize this was the guest you were expecting," he finishes sheepishly.

“No worries, Lance!” Shiro says easily. “And I _told_ you, call me Shiro.”

“R-Right.” Even with that affirmation, though, the doorman — Lance — looks like he’ll never actually follow through with such a command. His lips are more pursed than Allura's entire closet...

...and Keith would know a thing or two about that. He remembers his best friend's sumptuous suite of childhood rooms — overlooking the sprawling rose gardens of the d'Altea seaside estate in Oyster Bay —  _very_ well. He and Shiro had been living on welfare back then — to a young Keith, Allura's life had been a dream, a full-blown fairytale.

There’s a stilted pause between them, until Shiro adds, “By the way, Lance, this is my little bro, Keith. He’ll be staying with us in 24A for the next few weeks, so you can just let him up whenever, alright?”

“ _Two_ weeks,” Keith clarifies. He doesn’t mean to sound so short, but simply being around family makes his chest tighten. Shiro’s nearly eight years older than him — more of a father figure than a brother, sometimes — and that can really hurt if his mind stays too long on it.

Shiro shoots him a _look_ — _play nice_ — but he doesn’t say anything else aloud except, “Well, hope you have a quiet rest of your shift, Lance!”

The doorman dips his head. His crop of hair is slicked back, but Keith, who is by no means a hair expert, has a feeling that if left alone, it would be a whole lot messier.

“Th-Thank you, Dr. Shi — Shiro.”

The elevator doors slide close between them, then... but Keith still has a million questions for Doorman Lance. Namely: "It’s fucking _February_ — where are you keeping the fucking sun, you beautiful motherfucker?"


	2. Chapter 2

**II.** _Flyin’ ‘cross the floor_

 

The doorman’s full name is Lance Esteban McClain Acosta de la Cruz. It’s a right mouthful.

He’s the most junior doorman at the Castle, so naturally, he works the graveyard shift — 9:00 PM to 6:00 AM. Yikes.

And… that’s about it, for what Keith knows. All of the information available to him in the building’s registry… which he’s taken with him into the toilet, for reasons that he knows, but pretends not to know. Because even though he’s a grown-ass twenty-five year-old man, he’s also a punk-ass twelve year-old idiot.

He slams the useless thing shut and sighs, defeatedly dropping his head into his hands. He needs Danny and Vince to come back from visiting their cousins out west, the ones from Adam's side of the family, pronto. Four year-olds are the best (and cutest) distraction in the goddamn universe.

“Keith, it’s been fifteen minutes! What’re you — What’re you even _doing_ in there, man? Did you, like, fall into the toilet?”

“Pooping!” he hollers back unabashedly. It isn’t a total lie. “I’m _pooping_ , dammit!”

“Screw your pooping, I need to get ready for work!” his brother hollers back, equally unabashed and seemingly unconcerned about the status of Keith’s morning bowel movement. "Besides, we've got, like, five bathrooms! Go use another one!"

If he’s being charitable, Keith guesses that this an understandable reaction. But instead, he decides that Shiro needs a more in-depth explanation on his current situation of mild constipation, so he dutifully gives it to him in lurid detail through the bathroom door.

Because that's what little brothers do with their older brothers — they talk to them about poop. When all else fails — like when you _probably_ have some kind of PTSD but you _really_ don't want to talk about it, despite all other given medical and socio-emotional advice — it's a universal conversation kickstarter.

 

* * *

 

He still doesn’t like many things about the city, but he _does_ like Central Park. A true urban oasis — crossing the sidewalk into the park is like entering another world entirely. One where the sky is always blue and the grass is always green, even in the dead of winter, and the previously inescapable barrage of Manhattan sound is, in fact, escapable after all.

Long before Pokémon Go, this place had been the brothers’ haunt for the hunt. Keith’s imaginary Arcanine was nicknamed Godric — after Godric Gryffindor, naturally. And Shiro’s mighty Dragonite went by the most noble moniker of Optimus Prime. The mounties’ horses were legions of vengeful fire-breathing Rapidash, poor innocents brainwashed by the evil Team Rocket. Their father had readily supplied the name for their adventure’s version of sinister big boss Giovanni — “Rudy Giuliani,” Akira had called him. Looking back on it, it’s a whole lot funnier to Keith now than it was then.

But most things in life aren't quite like that, he’s realizing.

He enters the park just past Columbus Circle, having ducked into a nearby Starbucks to pick out his poison before his morning stroll. It’s still _very_ early, nobody out and about yet on the paths besides a few determined joggers and a grumpy old woman with her yappy little dog. Shiro had been more than surprised to see Keith out the door before he’d even finished packing up his lunch (apparently, one of their staff meal-preps for him on Sunday nights, so that the entire week’s worth of fancy-ass lunches would be readily available come Monday morning).

Keith knows that he should be taking advantage of every opportunity to sleep, so that he can return from his leave well-rested and ready for action. But the pinky sunrise is calling to him like a siren's song...

...and one Lance Esteban McClain Acosta de la Cruz works until 6:00 AM.

Except, too bad that Keith, like the absolute freak of nature that he is, had chickened-out and dashed past the front desk before the poor doorman could even get out a startled, “Good morning!”

He tosses his Starbucks cup into the nearest trash can with an unprecedented vengeance, and both the grumpy old woman and her yappy little dog shoot him a particularly noxious glare, as if to say, _You're a complete and total disgrace, Kogane_.

He drags his protesting body up the Umpire Rock, unusually empty in its long-forgotten glacial vastness. It's stone cold on his ass, even through the thermal running tights that he'd stolen from Shiro's closet.

At least the Manhattan sunrise — peeking and poking between the cracks of towering, looming skyscrapers and wide, windy Midtown boulevards — is just as good as he'd remembered it to be.

 

* * *

 

It’s always been a tough task to coax Katie out of her little nest down in Brooklyn, but the promise of free museum passes, courtesy of his military status, does the ultimate trick. They aren’t even that expensive in the first place, but his childhood friend lives on a bit of a shoestring budget these days. Renting in the city can do that to you.

“So,” Keith begins as he stares up at the captivatingly bumpy underbelly of the Museum of Natural History’s giant blue whale.

“So,” Katie echoes, equally entranced.

“How’s life?”

She shrugs her skinny shoulders. She’s as small as ever, still birdlike, the deep blue ambient lighting washing over and illuminating her sharp nose and the delicate bow of her pinched mouth. Not much has changed in the way of Katie Holt... and that makes Keith feel a helluva lot better, all things considered.

“It’s... It's going. I’m still at KISI, but I’m getting bored — I need an upgrade, 'cept job searching sucks big dick, so..." She pouts, bottom lip twisting. "Matt’s post-doc is at Columbia. He’s in Dad’s lab, of course. I mean, not because of, like, _nepotism_. He’s just interested in furthering Dad’s research and stuff, so the committee determined his thesis matched up well.”

“Plutonian ice cores. Got it.” Keith finally tears his gaze away from the fiberglass whale’s oddly hypnotic one. “What about Hunk?”

“Getting serious with Shay. They live together now — I think he’s gonna propose soon.” She rolls her eyes, then, and Keith’s more than hyped for her to deliver some kind of crippling one-two punch to the ridiculously foolish act that is falling in love with somebody else…

…but all that she adds is, “They’ve got some guy from college couch-surfing with them, though. Some broke-ass med student from NYU, from what I've heard, but Shay wants him out. Says he keeps trying to bring random girls home, or something.”

“Ugh, heteros.”

“I know, right?” And she fist-bumps him in an act of queer solidarity. But then—

“What’re _you_ gonna do next, Keith?”

It's  _the_  question. The question to end all questions. Something inside of him squeezes tight, tighter than one of his brother’s grossly affectionate octopus hugs. “What, what's that supposed to—“

“You can’t hide out in the clouds _forever_ ,” she elaborates. Her tone is light, but her eyes — they mean _so_ much more. Just like everybody else's these days. “Are you gonna come home anytime soon?”

It doesn't need anything more than that — that tight squeeze explodes, rears its ugly head, rapidly transforms into something that has hot red blood and bright red eyes. “Katie, you _know_ I can’t just—“

“We _miss_ you, Kogane—“

“—up and _leave_ , it’s, like, a commitment—“

“—Shiro talks about you, like, every five seconds, he gets all teary-eyed and crap, even _I_ catch feels when he pulls that kind of puppy-dog shit—“

“—you don’t know what you’re talking about, dammit—!“

“Ahem. Sir. Ma’am. May I remind you, this is a children’s museum, so, er… Please, tone it down. Or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

 

* * *

 

“Wanna come over to Hunk’s place with me? He just got a Switch, and Shay bought him loads of games for his birthday a few weeks ago.”

“Y-Yeah, okay. Sounds… Sounds nice.”

“Hey, Keith.”

“Hm?”

“I’m… I’m sorry. That—“

“Don’t worry about it, it’s—“

“Dude. Lemme finish.”

“O-Okay.”

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool, and I… I get it. Why you fly. Well, I don't _exactly_ get it, but... It's what you want. And you're my best friend, and I'll always support you, no matter what, so... Yeah. I shouldn't be coming after you for something like that.”

“…Thanks, Katie. That… That means a lot.”

 

* * *

 

“And, look, you can stick ‘em together! Like this!” Hunk waves the brightly colored Switch controllers around in a gleeful fashion. So gleeful, he clips Katie on the shoulder as she passes by the back of the living room's saggy couch with a big plastic bowl overflowing with tortilla chips.

“Watch it,” she hisses, in an eerie impression of an angry little kitten.

“O-Oh, sorry, Pidge," Hunk stumbles nervously, throwing his meaty hands up in front of his face like a shield. An very ineffective shield.

Keith looks between them, confused. “What’s a... What's a 'Pidge?'”

Katie’s scowl deepens. Her honey-colored eyes are like daggers behind the thick lenses of her glasses. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ , Garrett, I swear to God—!“

“Oh, I’mma tell him,” Hunk declares.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, Hunk is covered head-to-toe in tortilla chip crumbs, courtesy of one very angry Katie Holt, whom Keith will now and forevermore refer to as “Pidge.” It’s a damn good story, and he can’t wait to relay it to Shiro (who’s known her since she was in diapers and will therefore find it highly amusing).

What _isn’t_ amusing: It’s at this point that Shay turns up, muscled arms laden with grocery bag after grocery bag, and while she’s very excited to see Keith for the first time in months ("Baby, it's been _ages_ , how are you? You look too skinny, I've _gotta_ feed you!"), she isn’t particularly excited to see the mess that they’ve collectively made.

“Seriously?” she exclaims, pinning her cowering boyfriend in place with an accusatory glare. "I leave for, what, an _hour_? And _this_ happens? On _my_ carpet?"

“You gonna ground him from video games?” Pidge asks, sounding unusually enthusiastic about the entire situation, seeing as her tiny ass is one of those that's currently on the line. “Put him in time-out?”

“Kinky,” Keith supplies. His flat delivery sets even Shay, in her state of weary exasperation, off into a tailspin of giggles.

“Just help me with these groceries, dammit, and _then_ I'll decide.”

 

* * *

 

 _Much_ later, as he’s halfway through his second helping of salsa-drenched gnocchi — sounds unlikely, sure, but it’s nothing short of delicious, because it’s been touched by the divine chef’s hand that is Hunk Garrett’s — he ends up watching the happy couple taking updated inventory of their pantry.

Even though Pidge, with a hearty mouthful of her own dinner, is prattling on and on in his ear about something or other (probably still fussed about how he handed that tiny ass of hers to her in their final round of _Ultimate_ ), he’s able to pay attention to their movements, their expressions. He can’t quite make out what they’re saying to each other, and he doesn’t really want to, but he can still play an unintentional audience to the way that they look at each other, over two cans of garlic powder and an expired jar of Nutella, from within the cramped-but-cozy confines of their galley kitchen.

Like there’s an entire future there, wrapped up in a single person. A future that’s worth taking a chance on.

Before he can stop it, Keith’s mushy brain brings up a flash of bronzed skin and a long, smooth neck—

_WHAT. THE. FUCK._


	3. Chapter 3

**III.** _When you look at me, suddenly, it’s clear_

 

Lance isn’t there when Keith comes back from Brooklyn, trudging through the Castle’s grand doorways at o’dark thirty (still Sunday, but nearly Monday) with a certain degree of trepidation.

It’s not like Keith cares, though. He _totally_ doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

But then, it’s Wednesday evening, and Lance has been missing for four nights in a row. Some idiot decides that it’s a bright idea to call down to the Castle’s housing office and demand answers.

“H-Hi, uh, good evening. Uh. I’m calling about the, uh… whereabouts. Of one of the d-doormen?”

“May I… May I ask who’s speaking?” The man on the other end of the line sounds bewildered, and rightfully so. Come to think of it, he also sounds vaguely like Allura.

In yet another bout of brilliance, Keith replies with a prompt, “Shirogane Takashi, from 24A.”

“Ah, yes, good evening, Shiro! Nice to hear from you, but under such… odd circumstances. You know you can ring me on my personal, right? No need for such formalities from the father of my two favorite little boys—!”

Keith hangs up the phone. He stares blankly out into the guest bedroom.

And then, slowly but surely, pulls the plushy white duvet over his head, until he’s sure that it’ll be just the right amount of weight to smother him.

“What have I done…”

 

* * *

 

“Did you, like, prank call the building manager last night?” Shiro asks him over a hurried breakfast the next morning, poking the air in Keith’s general direction with his spoonful of lumpy steel-cut oatmeal.

Keith walks straight into the open refrigerator door.

“Keith,” Shiro says warningly, seemingly uncaring about the fact that his brother dearest is about to be sporting a sizable bruise to the forehead (a real pro at bedside manner, really). “Coran’s a busy guy, he has a ton of professional duties. You can’t just go around messing with him and the rest of the staff.”

“I-I don’t… I don’t mess around! With the s-staff! L-Like, what kind — Who would do that!” Keith splutters.

“Keith,” his brother repeats, but this time, laced with a notable amount of concern. “What’re you — Is everything—”

“Y-Yeah, everything’s fine—“ he interrupts before Shiro can even get out the rest of his sentence… and then proceeds to drop the milk carton to the floor. The thing _literally_ explodes, dousing the previously spotless jet black kitchen tiles in a flood of white.

“Is this…” Shiro’s voice softens even further. “Is this about _Lance_?”

 _What the—!_ Good thing he’d ducked behind the island counter when he did — Keith kind of feels like a tea kettle right now. Building up steam. Ready to pop his cap. That sort of thing.

“N-No, of course, of course not!” And then, a weak attempt at having what despairingly little of his chill is left: “Who — Who’s Lance?”

Shiro’s in his face, then, squatting down behind the island alongside him. He plucks the soggy cardboard carton from Keith’s drenched hands, and his eyebrow quirks. “You know, the doorman. The one you had a run-in with on Saturday night, when you got here.”

“Sunday morning,” Keith replies petulantly, as if _that’s_ the kind of response that Shiro’s looking for.

As expected, it isn’t. His older brother looks at him, dark eyes slightly narrowed as if to say, _Really?_

The butt of Keith’s jeans is currently soaking up some of the spilled milk. “Why… Why’d you ask?” he finally croaks out, glaring at the milk puddle, because making eye contact with Shiro seems like a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea. “Has he been, like…“ _Reported missing? Kidnapped?_ ** _Murdered_** _?_

“Relax, he’s fine,” Shiro says airily, with a dismissive wave of his hand to boot. He reaches out to mess with Keith’s fringe — unfortunately, the latter doesn’t twist out of the way in time, and his bangs stick staticky to his face. “I saw him yesterday. And don’t worry, that guy doesn’t ruffle easily — he’s a New York City doorman, and New York City doormen have, like, nerves of steel.”

“I, I’m not… I wasn’t _worried_ ,” Keith mumbles. “W-Why would I be, that’s — That’d be _crazy_ , I hardly know him! So, like… _yeah_.”

“Uh- _huh_ ,” Shiro says, not even bothering to mask the skepticism coloring his tone. And then he gets back on his feet, but with a little bit of an _oof!_ , because he’s thirty-two now, and his back isn’t what it used to be.

“Look, Shiro,“ Keith begins to argue, although he doesn’t exactly know what he aims for their argument to be about.

“Okay, _okay_ ,” his brother chuckles, hands raised in front of his chest in a placating sort of manner. “I’ll drop it… if you clean up after yourself.”

Keith rolls his eyes, _hard_. “Fine, _Dad_.”

“That’s ‘Dr. Dad’ to you,” Shiro replies promptly.

It doesn’t make the slightest of sense in terms of a response, but Keith resigns himself to it as he goes for the mop stocked in the supply closet off of the front entryway. In his critical eyes, Shiro’s never been particularly good at jokes — most of his comedic material consists of bad puns, and the kind of bad that levels on groan-worthy — but his sons always seem to get the weirdest of kicks out of their father’s otherwise pain-inducing humor.

Well, and Adam, too, but that seems like more of a “as your husband, I’m required by marital law to find you funny” kind of thing. Plus a few of their friends, like Matt, and sometimes, even Pidge (who doesn’t really do the laughter bit).

Keith frowns down at the soaking mop. Maybe _he’s_ the one with the problem after all.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

 

* * *

 

“H-Hello?”

_“Hey. It’s me.”_

“I know, I h-have caller ID.”

_“Why’re you breathing like that? Are you dying?“_

“I’m r-running. On the H-High Line.”

_“Oh. Oh, okay. I thought it might be something, y’know, more X-rated, or something. Just, try not to make a mess of the guest room, Adam’s kind of a germaphobe—“_

“Aren’t y-you supposed to be w-working, Shiro?”

_“Yeah, except, I need a coffee, stat. Machine’s broken here. Mind bringing me some liquid goodness?“_

“Y-You’re the _worst_.”

 _“Do you_ **_want_ ** _me to fall asleep on the operating table later? Somebody’s_ _life_ _could be on the line, here, Keith!“_

“Literally th-the worst. How in hell and high water did y-you pass med school?”

_“My good looks and irresistible charm.”_

“Did A-Adam tell you that? He w-was wrong.”

_“I’d like a grande caramel iced, no milk, one sugar—“_

 

* * *

 

“Here’s your damn coffee,” Keith says with little ceremony, plunking the beverage down on Shiro’s messy-but-somehow-organized (it doesn’t really make sense, but if you saw it, you’d understand) desk. Good thing he’d been wearing his gloves — that thing almost gave him frostbite all of the way down 25th Street. It really was a miracle that he hadn’t spilled a single drop of it, either. For all of his grace in the sky, he's kind of a clumsy idiot when his feet are on the ground.

“Thank you, widdle bro,” Shiro coos, grabbing at the drink and taking a long, loud slurp. “I wuv you.”

“ _Worst_ ,” Keith emphasizes with a hiss. Suddenly, he feels oddly drained. Maybe he'd gone a little too hard on his run...

“Wanna stick around?” Shiro gestures widely around his office, which is well-lit by a surprising amount of sun, considering the chill of the season around them. “I’m not doing much for the rest of the day.”

“You said you had a surgery,” Keith reminds him tartly, but he sinks into one of the armchairs anyway, an attempt at combating his sudden onset of light-headedness. “You said you needed this coffee so you didn’t botch it.”

“Keith, this is _Langone_. We don’t do my kinds of surgeries here, they’d probably freak out the interns.”

Keith considers chucking his brother’s lion paperweight straight out of the sizable windows of his swanky corner office. Straight out and down into the winter-gray East River churning below them.

Shiro seems to have sensed that he’s pestered Keith into oblivion. Filled his quota for the day, or something. Because then he says, “Lemme buy you some lunch, before you run off to who knows where else.”

“Where — Seriously, what do you think I do with my free time?” Keith splutters indignantly.

“I dunno.” Shiro takes another long drag on his coffee — it’s already mostly finished. He’s always been an absolute _fiend_ when it comes to caffeine — Keith’s pretty sure that his brother’s bloodstream was more coffee than actual blood back in med school. “Maybe… wait in line at _Hamilton_ for ticket cancellations?”

Keith cringes. “That was _one_ time!“

“You know, we _could_ get you _actual_ tickets next time you’re here, or something.” Shiro drops a wink at him over the rim of his reading glasses as he gathers up his wallet, stuffing it into the side pocket of his long white coat. “You just have to ask.“

“You two don’t need to do me any more favors,” Keith mutters, somewhat darkly, as he pulls himself up. But he means it — Shiro and Adam had funded his entire bachelors. And his first apartment, however temporary _that_ was. And they’d still supported him, even after he threw it all away to fly, hardly ever turning back for the ground.

“We’re _family_ , Keith,” Shiro reminds him quietly, crashing his train of thought. “Family… Family looks out for each other.”

For a second, Keith’s overworked brain flits to his mother’s face. He grits his teeth.

“C’mon, baby bro,” Shiro says, slinging a heavy arm around his shoulders. “It’s lunchtime.”

 

* * *

 

NYU Langone functions somewhat like a laboratory school — a hospital and a training center for medical professionals rolled into one. When Vince had a febrile seizure last year, he’d stayed here for almost a week, with a bunch of skinny wires plastered to his tiny scalp (they’d had to shave off all of his tight curls, much to his consternation) like a very colorful Medusa.

That was the last time that Keith had come home, and being back here — _especially_ here, in Langone — is more than a little unnerving. He’s never outright said it, but Keith can sense that Shiro feels somewhat similarly after watching his son get hooked up to all of those whirring and beeping machines. He seems to prefer spending the majority of his week doing surgeries at Mount Sinai in Harlem instead.

Still, his brother works the place like nobody else, calling all of the high-strung interns by their first names as they pass by them through the seemingly endless maze of sterile hallways, and stopping to bring the overworked nurses hot tea from the doctors’ lounge — he’s kind of like a celebrity around here.

Of course, then, everybody seems to recognize Keith, somehow, and one lady goes so far as to pinch him on the flushed cheek as they go by, marveling over how much he’s grown.

Keith tries his damndest not to glare at her — it’s a losing battle, though, so he swings his head around toward Shiro as a focal point. “How—”

Shiro just shrugs. “I keep a lot of old pictures in my office.”

Keith pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

 

* * *

 

For cafeteria food, the grilled cheese that Keith orders is surprisingly tasty. He’s more or less munching happily away… when It™ happens.

“Why hullo there, Lance! Long time, no see!”

Keith promptly spits out a soggy wad of grilled cheese.

“D-Dr. Shi — H-Hi, Shiro!” Keith doesn’t even need to look up from the horror that is this nightmare to know that Doorman Lance is just as unnecessarily intimidated by Shiro’s presence as ever. “Uh. Hi! H-How, how are you?”

His brother’s jovial reply is essentially drowned out by the torrent of blood rushing to Keith’s head. Because it’s Lance. Lance-the-Doorman-who-apparently-has-a-day-job. And he’s right there, at the end of their long table, surrounded by a veritable mountain of textbooks and lab manuals, disheveled hair and sleep-deprived eyes backlit by the weak sunlight streaming in through the caf’s floor-to-ceiling windows. His alarmingly heavy eye bags are nearly disguised by a pair of glasses. Not those cool hipster glasses, with their thick black frames and hefty price tags, or the circular kind that Pidge wears, or even Adam’s thin, square ones.

No. These are _grandpa_ glasses. Lenses like upside-down eggs, with an extra wire bridging the frames for added support. And just below those ridiculous lenses… a smattering of freckles.

Keith kind of feels like screaming (which is never a good idea in a hospital).

“—and get this, Keith here was like, _totally_ worried that your body’d been dumped in the Hudson or something—“

“I’m gonna go get some water.” He’s standing before he even knows it, and he practically sends a wheelchair-bound woman’s IV pole skittering as he makes a madcap dash for the soda fountain.

He’s punching the button for water for so long, face still horribly red, hands starting to shake, and just as his cup overflows—

“Hey.”

He freezes, the water starting to soak into the too-long sleeve of his sweatshirt ( _Shiro’s_ sweatshirt, with _Vagelos College - Columbia University_ emblazoned across its worn-out front in peeling letters).

“Are you… Are you done? With the water?”

Keith looks up into the grandpa glasses-covered eyes of Lance Esteban McClain Acosta de la Cruz… and faints.

 

* * *

 

Turns out, Keith has a fever. Mild enough, but still enough to warrant a bed in one of the in-patient rooms upstairs. Shiro — who’s formally known as Shirogane Takashi, MD, and has seen more live brains than there are stars in the sky — freaks out. And calls Adam. Who gets on a plane at LAX with the twins in tow, all within the hour.

To make the call, Shiro left the room. And who does he leave in charge of Keith in his absence?

Keith kind of wants to die. Maybe this fever will be a right mensch and do him in for good.

“So.” Doorman Lance is currently on the other side of the room, busy fiddling with the curtains. He's wearing an oversized purple pull-over —  _NYU School of Medicine_  — that somehow makes his eyes look even bluer.

Not that Keith cares, not a single fucking ounce. Because that would be goddamn idiotic.

“I’d bet Dr. Shirogane put in a good word for you, to get a view of the city like this…”

Keith, like the genius West Point grad that he is, just stares at the back of his head and tries his damndest not to throw up the rest of his grilled cheese on his blanket-covered chest.

The other man turns, arching a single skinny eyebrow. “You, uh… You okay over there?” And the way that he says it, with this stupidly gentle look in those stupidly blue eyes, is apparently enough to give Keith the will to live.

“Wh-What do _you_ think, Doc?” he manages to ask. Or more like, croak. _Ugly_ croak. Ugh.

Now it’s _Lance’s_ turn to stare. “You… You know I’m, like, still a student? Right?”

In the face of the other man’s deer-in-the-headlights expression, Keith can feel his deadpan cracking. Still, he manages a smirk, saying, “A student can’t even check a guy for a fever?”

Lance mutters something under his breath, and even though he doesn’t catch a lick of it, Keith can see that his cheeks are pinking. What’s more, he’s coming closer. What’s more—

A cool hand brushes his clammy forehead, and Keith closes his eyes, because he can’t help himself. Like he’s on a rollercoaster and the entire world is about to drop out from under his feet. Like he's a little kid all over again, a kid afraid of the dark.

The hand stays there just a beat too long, but then it’s gone, and Keith opens his eyes, and the wimpy hospital mattress dips under the weight of Doorman Lance, settling in on the edge of it with an unreasonable familiarity that would normally have Keith go tense and terse. But he can’t shake the feeling that he’s been here before. That this has happened thousands of times, in thousands of different universes, all rubbing elbows together in the cosmos surrounding them like, like—

“Yep. You’ve _definitely_ got a fever,” Lance confirms.

Keith tries to be cool, he really does. But even without the unexpected strength of his fever, he has the unsettling feeling that he’d be running warm anyway. “You must be pretty good at med school.”

Behind those ridiculous glasses, Lance’s eyes crinkle.

“I must be.”


End file.
